


Through A Glass, Darkly

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 11:35:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21243437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: The leader of a Special Forces team, dead, his men nowhere to be found.  A mysterious manuscript appearing on the desk of a London publisher.  Just what is the connection?  Discovering that will cause some harsh memories to resurface for Garrison's men, and present them with a danger they'd never thought they'd have to face - each other.





	Through A Glass, Darkly

August Delhampton, owner and main editor at Delhampton Press, LTD, enjoyed his work, always had. A congenial man of around forty, he enjoyed encouraging those writers who might be a little unsure of themselves but who had definite signs of talent. He was proud of the way several budding authors had turned into established, well-known and respected names under the auspices of his publishing house. And, as an avid reader, he couldn't discount the enviable perquisite that was his access to the very latest of offerings, long before the public would ever see them; in fact, he quite relished his role in helping to decide just what the public WOULD see and have the opportunity to read. 

Some things submitted to him were not quite suitable for Delhampton Press, of course, but he did have other contacts, and was quite generous in lending his efforts to making sure a promising new work, if not quite right for him, got into the hands of the appropriate publishing house. 

"The point", he had often espoused to his fellow publishers, "SURELY is to give promising authors access to readers, and readers access to quality authors. Making money is all well and good, and necessary, of course, but one does have an obligation in other directions." 

Of course, he did other things as well, including reviewing and editing certain pieces for the government as his part of the war effort. He even wrote a few select pieces on occasion. Well, he had always prided himself on having a deft way with a phrase. In a way, that was his own literary skill. 

Oh, his father had had a way with words, as well, but that individual was strictly attuned to works of a scientific nature, and had often expressed a rather amused dismissal of August's quite different talent. 

"Next thing we'll have you writing poetry or some romantic drivel," he'd snorted once, after reading the short story August had labored over for so long. August had flushed and had refrained from offering up any of his writings after that, keeping it as a very private endeavor. 

Now he still wrote only for his own amusement, his own gratification, knowing what he produced was not worthy of the serious attention he gave the works that were entrusted to him by other writers.

Usually the delivery of a new manuscript to his desk was a pleasant thing, at least allowing for hopeful anticipation of discovering a new talent, or a successful offering from an established talent. Of course, that hopeful anticipation didn't always pan out, as much of what he received demonstrated neither talent or wit or really, much of anything of a redeeming quality.

However, rarely did a new manuscript, once scanned, deliver such a feeling of dire forebodings as this new one by an unknown author, Thurgood Darkglass. 

The first few chapters he had received were bad. Well, not badly written, quite well written, actually; just highly disturbing, enough so that he sat the manuscript on the 'Hold to consider how to reply' stack. After all, a rejection letter should be most carefully worded, not to cause undue distress, well, any more than the actual rejection itself would cause. And a rejection letter it would most certainly be; this was not something he was willing to publish, nor was he willing to send it on to any of the other publishing houses.

The second installment, another few chapters, arrived before he had figured out just how to word that rejection letter. Almost against his will, he sat down with a glass of brandy to read that bundle of pages, peruse the charts and other attachments. He was getting a feeling that a rejection letter was the least of his worries.

Now he mulled over his options, and realized he needed some input other than just his own. 

First, he visited the family estates to speak with his twin brother, Broderick. The men were very different, not in looks, them being identical twins, but in outlooks and occupations, and rarely agreed on anything. However, like their father, Broderick had significant interest in and knowledge of practical economics and philosophical and behavioral theories, especially the two authorities cited so many times in that manuscript, Charles Darwin and the Reverend Thomas Robert Malthus, so was a logical person to ask an opinion of.

As usual, the conversation ended with both individuals feeling utter frustration with the other. Now, listening to Broderick pontificate, August gritted his teeth. 

{"I should have known this would be a waste of time! If I knew anyone else in the field, or at least, anyone who'd not go blathering around about this, I'd never have come here! But this is NOT something to be discussing with just anyone!"}

Broderick was now sighing with disappointed resignation.

"I would say, dear brother, that you are totally confusing Darwin's evolutionary philosophy and his work on behavioral theory. And you are forgetting that Malthus was a statistician and an economist, along with being a philosopher. You really DIDN'T listen to Father's explanations, did you?"

"That's not the point, Broderick! The manuscript is the point! I seem to recognize the style, the manner of wording certain things, but I just can't put my finger on it. You've read everything out there on the subject; can YOU tell who the author might be? Any ideas at all? This needs to be stopped before it goes any farther!"

Broderick sighed again; sometimes his brother got so caught up on the inconsequentials instead of the important things, though no one had ever been able to convince August of that. Such a common mind, really! Still, a question had been asked, and an answer required.

"I agree, it does sound familiar; rather reminds me of Father's work, you know. But then, you say this is a new manuscript, and Father has been gone all of ten years now, so that's hardly possible. And no one else really comes to mind.

"And is it really that important, August? Why would you need to know? You are implying you intend to interfere in some manner, and that is hardly your place, you know. Why you would even think of interfering in someone's scientific experiments baffles me. It is most disrespectful; father would have been appalled. The pursuit and recording of new knowledge, advanced developments should be encouraged, not held in such dis-esteem.

"Next thing, you'll likely be taking a private manuscript and passing it around all across London, trying to get an opinion, just like you used to with those two friends of yours at University. What were their names? Richards and Anderson, something like that. Like there was no validity unless they agreed with whatever supposition you came up with. 

"Father and I could never understand that. WE have always had the courage of our own convictions and didn't need any such bolstering. If WE needed to ask an opinion, we asked OURSELVES; that's what truly intelligent people do. WE did not need a 'team'; WE, each of us, WERE our OWN team! WE relied on our own viewpoints, not those of outsiders. WE had CONFIDENCE in our own viewpoints, did not seek to arouse self-doubts or confusion by consulting others."

They parted angrily and in deep frustration with the other, each going in their own direction, (and hadn't that almost always been the case??!)

August stopped in for a few words with his mother. That went about as expected as well, his mother having some foolish notions about he and his brother "needing to come more in harmony with each other". 

Well, like THAT was going to happen, now, after all these years! 

Her final words were just another exercise in futility, surely she knew that. 

"August, this animosity, it is NOT a good thing. Can you not at least make an effort to resolve things between you?"

As he drove away, he firmly dismissed the entire wasted trip. 

"Truly, I should have known it would be a total waste of time!"

Still worried about the manuscript, he decided to speak with a slight acquaintance, Inspector Lew Mabry of Scotland Yard, of whom he'd heard excellent things. "Good solid man, with a proper sense of discretion, that Inspector Mabry." 

He didn't reveal any secrets, but gradually drew the man out about any odd happenings that might relate. From Mabry, he learned a few things that fit in far too well with the tale that manuscript told, enough to worry him even further. Mabry's interest was piqued, of course, and resolved to call on the publisher the following day to see if he could draw him out more. It was obvious that August Delhampton knew more than he'd been willing to reveal.

The third part of the manuscript was waiting for August when he returned to his office, and proved as disquieting, if not more, than the first two.

Finally, as his brother had predicted with such disgust, he took his quandry to those he'd known and trusted many years ago, two friends from his university days.

That was when things started to get complicated, at least on the surface.

Colonel Joe Anderson, Base Commander of the military base nearest Brandonshire, and Major Kevin Richards were quite willing to help an old friend, though what they could help him WITH, they weren't sure - something about a new manuscript?? That was hardly their field.

But now, listening to August over a glass of whiskey, they began to get an idea of just how deep the waters truly were.

"You are both aware of the theories of Charles Darwin, as well as those of the Reverend Thomas Robert Malthus, I'm sure. I believe we shared that same class at university. I remember I found it most disconcerting to hear from our professor the philosophies my own father had seemingly found so intriguing. I've tried to steer clear of any of that ever since, though of course, the occasional manuscript is presented for my review and approval that does touch on such matters. Well, Delhampton Press DOES tend to focus on that area of things, the serious rather than on the frivolous."

He sighed, frowned and touched his forefingers up under his chin, a mannerism both Anderson and Richards remembered from their university days.

"This particular manuscript, 'Darwinian and Malthusian Theory, A Practical Exploration', at least the first packet of four chapters I had received, I skimmed and then tried to ignore. Actually sat it aside in the stack for those I would need to write rejections letters for. I always try to allow sufficient time to get my thoughts together, so as not to be unduly harsh, or insincerely encouraging, and frankly, I was busy with other matters. And that manuscript made me highly uncomfortable, I must admit.

"Before I could get to that stack, the second installment of an additional four chapters had arrived. Along with some attachments for the first installment - charts, graphs, tables.

"I was starting to become quite concerned. At first, I had thought, well, hoped actually, that the whole thing a prank, some foolish pontificating, not something to be taken seriously. 

"The second package had me wondering, enough I made a visit to my brother, Broderick, who rather specializes in that sort of thing. Unfortunately, he was unable to help, so I put in a call to an acquaintance at Scotland Yard, Inspector Lew Mabry. I didn't go into details, just acquired some general information, but it does appear the events outlined just MIGHT have happened. 

"I was still trying to determine whether the whole thing was some bizarre hoax or some equally bizarre endeavor on behalf of someone not running on an even keel.

"The third package, that was what caused me to reach out to the two of you. You see, the author included not just the next several chapters, along with new charts, graphs and tables, but also photographs. And, most tellingly, for the first time, he included names of the individuals involved in one of his 'experiments', and specified that they were, or rather, had BEEN members of a military Special Forces Team, under the leadership of a man named Dixon Brown."

Richards and Anderson snapped to attention. The mysterious death of Lieutenant Dixon Brown, found in a back alley with a bullet through his head, the unexplained disappearance of his four-man team, had greatly concerned and perplexed the entire of Special Forces. 

There were some decidedly out-of-line comments, a few of the usual die-hard malcontents opining that the real surprise was that it wasn't Garrison found in an alley, that group of cons of his off to Switzerland with their ill-gotten loot, though sounder heads were stomping on such talk whenever it made its way to the surface.

"I decided I should bring you these to show you, to get your thoughts," reaching into his portfolio to bring out a set of photographs and handed them to Kevin Richards.

Richards' jaw was rigid as he nodded to the other men. "Yes, I recognize them. Peters, Stone, Cherrick, Jones - Dixon Brown's team. Obviously dead, from the looks of it."

Delhampton sighed. "I was afraid of that. According to the manuscript, the author was continuing his series of experiments to prove or disprove certain aspects of the Darwinian and Malthusian theories. While the first several sets of participants cooperated, limiting the deaths involved, these men refused to cooperate, and all paid the price, your Lieutenant Brown included.

"What I find quite disturbing, not that the entire matter is not quite disturbing, is that there is something oddly familiar about the tone of the writing. It is as if I have read something from the same author before, but I have crossed-checked my records and the name he is using - Thurgood Darkglass - is one unknown to me. A pseudonym, perhaps.

"I have even spent considerable time going through anything similar that has been submitted to us in the past, for I DO keep precise records, and I found nothing. Yet, it is as if his identity is only a whiskers-length from my mind.

"As I said, I even spoke to my twin brother, Broderick, about it. I don't believe you ever met, but you probably heard me speak of him. Broderick always has been quite the student - psychology, evolutionary theory, behavioral theory and a great deal more, as was my father, though for my father it was merely an avid hobby, since running the publishing house took the majority of his time. 

"Broderick, on the other hand, manages the family estates and is not involved in the publishing business. While not a 'scientist' as such, more in the way of an eager amateur, he IS devoted to his studies and is quite knowledgeable and well-read on the subject. 

"He agrees the style of the writing, the theory development and the accompaniments seem oddly familiar, but alas, he wasn't able to put a name to them either. Other than to mention it bore certain similarities to the writings of our deceased father, of course, which was hardly helpful. And frankly, his opinion was much that of a researcher himself, being reluctant to 'interfere' with scientific research, even research of this nature."

He handed them each a thick bundle of papers. "Here is a copy of the entire manuscript so far. Once you read through it, I believe you will see that this Darkglass is expanding, intensifying his experiments. 

Delhampton stopped to take a sip from the glass of whiskey in front of him.

"You see, the first involved individuals completely unknown to each other, no connection, no bonds, very similar in capabilities, both physical and otherwise. He called that 'establishing a base line of behavioral variances'. The next involved individuals who, while known to each other, were not friends, as such. In fact, it appears he went out of his way in one such encounter to select men who already had some animosity toward each other. It has evolved, with several variations, ending with this group, your Dixon Brown and his team members, being the latest."

Some hint of emotion, perhaps worry, perhaps anxiety, there then gone, flashed behind Delhampton's brown eyes. They had to give him credit for remaining quite professional about the whole matter, which was giving THEM more than a little pause.

"There was one thing more I found in that last parcel - a folded handscratched note, more like a memo to himself than something intended for someone else, certainly not for ME. I am inclined to think it got shuffled amongst the pages by accident. I am hoping you can make some sense of it, for I fear it points to those perhaps next in line for encountering this Darkglass.

Richards read it and felt a cold chill, handed it over to Anderson without a word.

Joe Anderson drew in a deep breath. "Lieutenant Craig Garrison - Garrison's Gorillas - Brandonshire"

He looked at Richards. "Well, isn't that lovely! Though, perhaps a natural progression. Still . . ."

Delhampton raised his brows, looking from one to the other. "A natural progression? I don't quite understand."

Richards sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily. 

"Oh, yes. From total strangers, having no bond with one another, through various others, ending with Brown and his team. Brown and his men were a solid team, had been together for some time. Worked well together. But Garrison and his men, they are, well, something rather beyond that. Unusual men with unusual backgrounds and skills, an unusual leader, and an unusually strong bond to each other. I can't imagine where this Darkglass would be going next, unless to actual family, blood family, you know."

Anderson urged, "and you're sure you don't have any idea of who this might be, even a glimmer, someone we might at least question?"

Delhampton shook his head sadly, "no, I'm afraid not. As I said, the style seems familiar, but not one I actually recognize as belonging to a certain individual." 

He gave a rueful laugh, "although I agree with Broderick. I noticed it as well, seeming very akin to our dear departed father's style. A odd thought, certainly, most likely brought on by the subject matter, one he took a great deal of interest in. 

"And perhaps it is all a mares-nest. But I would hate for this Lieutenant Garrison and his men to be caught unawares." 

Again, there was a flicker of some emotion in those quiet brown eyes, apprehension mixed with concern. 

The conversation continued on for some time, various possibilities and options being presented, discussed, many ideas discarded. Finally, August Delhampton took his leave.

"If there is anything I can do, gentlemen, beside letting you know if there is any further communication, please let me know."

"Would you be willing to sit down with Lieutenant Garrison, go over this with him, as you did with us? Answer any questions he might have?" Richards asked.

"Of course, just let me know when and where. As I said, anything I can do to help."

He left, and the two military officers, old friends, sat there thinking over all they'd been told, been shown. It was Kevin Richards who finally broke the silence.

"What do you think, Joe? Did something about all that seem just a little, well, 'off' to you?"

Anderson snorted. "The whole damned thing seems off! Whoever is behind this is obviously a few matches sort of a full box, to say the least! How many men are dead, all in the name of this experiment in behavioral science, or whatever he chooses to call it?"

Richards sat back, took another sip of whiskey, frowned. 

"Yes, well, I agree, of course. But that wasn't what I meant. I have never been a great believer in coincidence, less so as the years go by, and this just seems too many tucked up against each other. I know we haven't seen him in a number of years, and August was always a bit of an odd duck, though a good sort, of course, and from his stories, his brother and father even more so - odd, I mean. Still, I have the uncomfortable feeling we are being herded, you might say. Do you think August might be on the receiving end of some subtle, or perhaps not-so-subtle manipulation?"

"Hmmmm," Anderson responded with a heavy frown of his own. "Perhaps a trip to Brandonshire is in order, Kevin. And perhaps a stop to see my cousin along the way? Meghada DOES have a way of seeing to the bottom of a situation, uncomfortably so, in my opinion, from what I have seen and from what you have told me."

They DID stop at the Cottage, bringing the Dragon up to date, starting her on a separate line of investigation. Then, off to the Mansion, where they briefed an incredulous Craig Garrison, arranged for him to meet with August Delhampton to get the words straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak.

A call came from Delhampton, a few days later, requesting another meeting, this time with Garrison AND his men, citing "new information that may have a bearing, information that will need verification from your men, since it seems to involve them quite heavily. Major Richards will also be joining us, I understand."

Garrison and the team headed for the elegant if small establishment on the outskirts of London. 

Well, after Garrison tried, unsuccessfully, to reach the Dragon, to see what she might have learned. He had no greater success in reaching Major Richards, and had to leave an urgent message with Private Ames when he found Richards was out of the building at the moment, whereabouts unknown. He'd also left a message with Colonel Anderson's Aide, it just seeming to be the cautious thing to do, considering how odd the whole situation was.

Their reception was warm and hearty. Well, in some respects, anyway. They were quickly whisked away, Garrison in one direction, the other four in a different one. They weren't all so eager to be separated, but those loaded rifles trained on them DID rather encourage their cooperation. Garrison had given them that tiny signal, 'play along', reinforcing his instructions from the trip up to London. 

{"Keep it together. Wait as long as possible, give me a chance to get the drop. Take care of yourselves and each other."} he silently urged them, hoping he wasn't taking the wrong tack, hoping he wouldn't find later it would have been better to fight it out with those armed guards right then and there.

Now, he waited, listened, tried to plan his next action. Well, along with listening to the smug outline from the man seated to his left.

"First your four men will play their part, Lieutenant, determining just who IS most worthy of survival; it's not always the one you would think, you know. I know I've been surprised a time or two. 

"Then, we will repeat the experiment, only this time with you and Major Richards and which ever I deem most worthy of the men who survive the first experiment. 

"Now that should be quite interesting as well, don't you think? You, an active, highly trained field agent. Another officer, trained but at perhaps a slightly different level. And one man of quite a different sort, but one who has already proved himself a survivor, and one you are accustomed to working with.

"Again, the possibilities are most intriguing. Will you and your man form a team to eliminate your fellow officer? Will the two officers join forces as brothers to eliminate the outsider? It should be a highly stimulating, quite educational afternoon, don't you think?"

The man in the hooded cape wore a full mask, probably formed of paper mâché, though coated with something that made it resemble satiny-white porcelain painted with aristocratic features and a small harlequin design on one cheek, leaned forward to flip a switch at the base of the microphone sitting on the table in front of him, letting him speak directly to Garrison's men. 

The men looked up and around at the sound, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from.

Garrison could hear the satisfied smile in that voice, even if he couldn't see the man's face; knew his men could hear it as well.

"It's really quite simple, gentlemen, if I might call you that. There are four of you. You will wait for the bell to ring. You will then enter the ring that forms the center of the room you are in, and only three of you will leave the ring alive. There are some basic weapons placed around - oh, no pistols, mustn't tempt you to any untoward actions against the guards or against me, but a knife or two, clubs, a few oddments of rope or chain, that sort of up-close weaponry. 

"There is an envelope waiting for those who exit, provided the one left behind is no longer breathing. It contains a considerable amount of money, to be split between the winners. 

"If the damage inflicted before death is substantially greater than what was necessary to cause that man's demise, and, ah, 'amusing' enough, there will be a second envelope, with an equal amount, just a bonus for delivering a good show. I place no limits on just how much amusement you deliver, or what kind; I am really quite open to all options, you see.

"You have a limited amount of time to accomplish your task, as indicated by the timer you can see on the wall. I'll leave it for you to gamble on how much time is needed to accomplish your goals, as I have heard each of you are quite astute gamblers. The timer will ring when your base time has been used up.

"For each three minutes over that time, a portion of the money will be removed from the envelope. So it DOES pay to be expeditious. When enough time has passed that the envelope is empty, if you delay that long and haven't finished the job, the guards will shoot whoever is still alive. 

"At the risk of repeating myself, it would be best to get the job over and done quickly, though imaginatively, of course, in order to access that second envelope. It will take rather delicate timing, to get the job done well, enough to earn the second envelope, without paying any penalty from the first."

He flipped the switch closed again, and smiled over at the man seated next to him, and glanced over at the other similarly-bound man to the far side of Garrison - Kevin Richards.

'Masque', as Garrison was starting to think of him, had a voice that was uncomfortably alien, making his stomach clinch. {"Possibly the distortion of the mask? Though the situation is more than enough to affect my stomach, of course."}

"What will it be, Lieutenant? What do you think? Will the three younger eliminate the oldest, as in the wild the young wolves take on and eliminate the past-his-prime alpha male? Will the three older finish off the youngest, as a male lion will remove competition from a younger rival? Will the three larger ones quickly overpower the smaller one, the weakest of the pack, and get it all finished quickly? 

"Will they be content with the first envelope, allowing their so-called scruples to prevent them for going for the greater prize? Or will they realize they are, oh what is the saying, 'in for a penny, in for a pound', and work to guarantee obtaining the greater reward, and thus providing us with greater entertainment?

"What do you think, Lieutenant? You know these men. Which is the most likely scenario? Should I have given them more incentive? Perhaps suggested certain little additions that would have engendered a bonus even beyond that second envelope, perhaps? Come, tell me. You know these men best of anyone, or so I am told."

Garrison thought about the bodies that had been found, sometimes the bodies that had NOT been found, and wondered why he felt no anger, not like he had when he'd viewed that manuscript, saw those photographs. No, now there was only a cold hard determination. 

Oh, he would try to subdue the bastard and keep him alive to face trial, but that odd little knife Goniff and Meghada had insisted he take, learn how to use? The weapon that looked nothing like a weapon? He'd not discount that, if it came down to it. 

{"Teammates, brothers, forced to kill one of their own, or to be killed in turn? He deserves Justice, not mercy, not from me!"}. That he was seeing that word as 'Justice', rather than 'justice', just proved how much of an influence the Dragon had had on him, and he didn't find that an uncomfortable thought.

He managed a grim smile and a wry chuckle, flexing his muscles, getting ready to make his move when he finally saw his chance. He'd already felt a give in his bonds, though he was careful not to let his captor realize that. From where the Major was sitting, off to his right, he knew that Richards had probably seen what he was attempting, but he was being very careful not to let the expression in his eyes give Garrison away. He certainly couldn't have said anything, not with that gag firmly across his mouth.

"It's hard to say; these guys aren't the usual. They don't always react like you'd think. Perhaps they'll decide on who irritates the others the most. Or maybe, who tells the worst jokes. Or who snores and keeps them awake. Or maybe, they'll refuse to play your game entirely." 

Garrison was keeping a lid on his temper, though it wasn't an easy thing, all the time working on his bonds.

"Oh, that would be a shame, Lieutenant, since I would then have to have them ALL shot. No, I think they will play; they are pragmatists, I believe. Well, they would need to be, considering their current occupation and backgrounds. In fact, that gives me an idea . . ." 

And he leaned forward to flip that switch and speak into intercom. From the alert turning of the four men toward that voice, Garrison knew they could once again hear quite well what was being said.

"And, gentlemen, about those envelopes with the cash? While one man MUST die, there is nothing that says all THREE of the others need to walk away. That reward for winning can be split three ways, or two, or maybe not split at all. Just something to think on," as he glanced over at Garrison and smiled with great satisfaction as the four men in the glass cage cast wary, speculative looks at each other. Of course, once again Garrison could only imagine that smile, but he was sure he wasn't wrong about it being there.

Focusing on the board in front of him once again, he flipped the switch closed. 

"There, that might make things even MORE interesting, don't you thi---?"

He'd not finished the last word when Garrison managed to use that small knife to free himself from the chair where he'd been tied. Two quick hard blows prevented the man from continuing. 

One of the guards swung his rifle in Garrison's direction, giving a shout to his fellow guard inside, forgetting the room was soundproofed. Garrison hurried to grab the pistol from 'Masque' and eliminated any threat from the guard.

Quickly he thumbed the switch on the microphone. 

"NOW!" he shouted.

And the four men had the guard disarmed and helpless before the echo died, before Garrison had flipped that second switch, the one that released the lock to the door to that glass cage.

They cut Richards free, and they all gathered around the downed man, as Garrison reached down to remove that mask. 

Garrison nodded in recognition.

"Broderick Delhampton, August's twin brother. His brother was quite right to think he recognized the style of the writing, the phrasing, though it was his brother's, not his father's. He will be devastated when he finds out."

Richards shook his head, "no, Lieutenant. That's not Broderick Delhampton. That is August Delhampton."

"The publisher?? But he's the one who brought it to your attention in the first place! Surely you're mistaken."

"Not unless Meghada is mistaken, and somehow I don't think she is. Broderick Delhampton is dead; has been for a very long time. Except, perhaps, in his twin brother's mind. It's a long story. Let's get this mess cleaned up. I'll tell you when we can sit and have a drink. I certainly need one, and I believe each of you do as well."

It was a solemn group in the Common Room, each still coming to grips with the situation they'd been thrust into.

"So you smelled a rat, and brought in the rat-catchers, ie. Meghada and company," Casino offered.

Richards nodded. "Yes. She and Michael searched out Martha Delhampton, August and Broderick's mother. That wasn't too hard, if a little time-consuming, since she's some distance away; she's been living at their country estate, supposedly with August's twin brother, Broderick.

"That must have been a very difficult conversation, pulling out all the details. It seems she was reluctant to speak of it, but between Meghada and Michael, they finally managed to get at the truth. Just in time to get word to me, by one of her street lads, right as I left the building. I had started back, to alert you and Colonel Anderson, but was ambushed on the way.

"According to Mrs. Delhampton, her husband really was fascinated by the theories of Darwin and Malthus, enough he tried to put them into practice on their estate as a series of experiments 'to further the cause of scientific research'. Their estate workers, AND their twin sons, paid the price for his endeavors. 

"The boys had to compete, intellectually and physically, for everything they got, even the bare necessities. There was ONE room, ONE single bed, ONE of everything, and they weren't allowed to share. They were forced to compete, winner take all, for each challenge. If they tried to team up, they were both punished, severely.

"Eventually, when the boys were twelve, it got even rougher than usual, and Broderick ended up severely injured. He died two years later, having been a total invalid during that time, not knowing them or even who he was. 

"The estate workers were also pitted against each other, much as Delhampton had been doing here, fighting for essentials, fighting for advancement, in some cases, fighting for mere survival. And it was an isolated place, so there was no one around to see, interfere. 

"Mrs. Delhampton implied, reluctantly, that those who didn't go along, well, they 'found a place elsewhere; I don't know where.' Meghada says she got the impression that elsewhere might have been at the bottom of a quarry or something like that."

"But if this Broderick died . . ." Goniff asked.

"August never accepted that, according to their mother. Refused to accept that his twin was dead, especially at his hands. Kept to the fiction that Broderick had just become even more reclusive, was being privately tutored by their father in the studies they both had such an interest in, and thus keeping to himself.

"I remember being told that when we knew August at university. Well, we were told all sorts of things, stories, some funny, some exasperated, about 'brother Broderick'."

"You think he really believed all that, or was he just trying to cover it all up?" Casino asked, still shaking his head over the madness of the whole thing.

"I don't know how to describe it, other than what their mother told Meghada. That sometimes August was 'August', sometimes he was 'Broderick'. When he was August, he had no interest in the behavioral sciences, would laugh and shrug them off as irrelevant to his running the family business. When he was Broderick, he disdained even the mention of the publishing house, always turning the conversation back to Darwin or Malthus or another of their bent. It was as if two individuals lived in the same body, taking turns at random at who was on point."

"So, did 'Broderick' do all the work, the writing and everything, and once it got to August, he really DIDN'T know? Who went to Richards? This 'Broderick', trying to trap us? Or August, trying to put a stop to all the killing?" Chief asked, rubbing his knife carefully along his jawline.

That got everyone's attention, that being something perhaps they hadn't considered before. They weren't all that happy considering it now.

"Now, that IS an interesting question, isn't it?" Garrison mused, taking another sip from his glass. "Of course, we'll probably never know."

Actor frowned, perplexed. "One of the things I do not understand is why their, his mother did not seek help. Surely, if she knew . . ."

Meghada, silent til now, snorted with disgust.

"Oh, she knew, even from the beginning. She told me that August had been 'ever so attentive' during Broderick's illness; had sat with him for hours, talking, discussing, often taking both sides of the conversation, since Broderick was supposedly incapable of speaking. Sometimes August would relate entire conversations that they'd had, even transcribe 'scientific papers' Broderick would 'dictate'. She was amazed, you know, "how intelligently they were worded, even as young as Broderick was!"

Casino frowned, "so, like Beautiful was asking, she knew, but she didn't think it was a little weird? Enough to maybe get some help?"

Meghada scowled, outdoing even Casino in the effort.

"I asked her that. Outlanders! I will NEVER understand them! Do you know what she told us??! That she 'couldn't' do that, even after. I presume she meant her son's death, though she was coy about stating that outright. 

"She said that 'Broderick' wrote such wonderful scientific papers, and besides he managed the estates better than even their father had! They were EVER so productive and profitable now! 

"And that without 'August', what on earth would become of the publishing house?? And that too was more profitable, ever expanding, ever commanding more of a market share of the London publishing field than even under their father's management. 

"THAT mattered, you see, the profit, the money flowing to her and the estate, along with the family reputation, of course - not the damage, either to her son or to anyone else. "No, no," she insisted, "trying to get them to be a little nicer to each other, less argumentative, that was a much better route to take. After all, they ARE brothers; they ARE both my sons!" 

"I wonder if she is going to pick up the mantle, having conversations as each of her sons and as herself, now that August is dead?!"

Meghada finished what was left in her glass in one angry toss of her head, and reached out to refill everyone's glass.

"If you ask me, she and their father were both mad as hatters. Hardly a wonder August turned out the same! Outlanders!!! Sweet Mother Erdu save us from them and their schemes, every one of us!"

They were all a little grateful that the Dragon didn't seem to be considering any of THEM in that group she now spoke of with such frustrated disdain, though exchanging slightly amused glances at the realization they were now apparently Family, Clan, as far as she was concerned.

That topic was tabled, at least for now, since Richards had to leave to head for a briefing, one Meghada was involved in as well.

Once the two had left, the subject switched to the situation they'd found themselves in after being approached by Richards and Anderson with their suspicions.

"Was like that in the slam, you know," Chief said in a low voice. "At least, when Pryor was in charge. He'd pick a couple a guys, put them up against each other. Usually. Sometimes, he'd do doubles or more."

Garrison frowned, "doubles or more?"

Actor nodded, "yes, and it wasn't just Pryor. It happened elsewhere. Two or three pairs, with the winner of each set taking on the winner of another. Til someone, maybe several, ended up dead."

Casino had a scowl on his face. "Saw it once, three pairs, told to do it that way; supposed to end up with one guy dead anyhow. Instead, everyone ganged up on one guy, finished him quick and easy. Warden didn't like that, didn't last long enough to suit him. The five left standing? They didn't make it out that way - nobody left breathing, not after those pet guards opened up. Nobody tried that again, not after seeing how it would turn out."

Garrison shuddered. He tried to keep the picture out of his head, especially the picture of his guys like that. Glancing over at Goniff, who'd not said a word so far, he saw a wry grimace on the smaller man's face, not anything that could be called a smile.

Casino read that little aside, somehow the recent events letting him pick up on more of the unspoken conversation than usual. He'd spend some effort over the next few days diminishing that ability; it was just too uncomfortable. But for now . . .

"Yeah, you're reading it right. If it had been for real, Goniff woulda been the one bleeding out. That's the way it works, Warden, how it'd HAVE to work. YOU know, the longer a fight goes on, the more chance luck will turn against you. You'll miss your footing, or sweat gets in your eyes, or something like that. You want to live, you get it finished hard and fast. Especially with what this guy was saying first off, only one needin to end up dead. You'd be stupid not to pick the one easiest to take down, especially three-to-one. Especially when there was the take-off for the more time it took."

Actor nodded thoughtfully, "perhaps that is why he added the extra incentives, stating there would be a bonus for 'improving the show', along with it not having to be just ONE body, there could be more. And that the fewer who walked out, the more would be in the split. It could end up quite a bloodbath, if the men involved played along. Of course, it would have ended up a bloodbath if you hadn't been able to stop him, as well; give us the opportunity to overpower the guard."

"Gotta wonder just what he was hoping to see in that 'show' he was talkin about," Casino growled, a heavy frown on his face. 

"Don't know he was hoping for anything special, Pappy," Chief reminded him. "Him being the scientific sort and all, expect he just wanted something 'interesting' to put down in his papers. As long as it stood out, probably didn't make much difference unless it proved one of those 'theories' he was spouting about earlier. What he left in the ring, the ropes, those chains, the knives - lots a damage you could do with those. Even without the damage you could do without any of those."

The men were silent, nursing their drinks, their minds maybe seeing too much in the way of what was possible.

Garrison thought now to the man HE'D left bleeding out on that elegant Persian rug. It was one of those change-of-luck things Casino had been talking about. Delhampton had the advantage, had been armed with a pistol, but the surprise of Garrison managing to get free had shaken him. Add that to his catching his heel on the rug, toppling forward as Garrison made what was intended to be a disabling swing of that concealed knife, and it was over. 

He'd felt some initial guilt over that, but listening to his men, watching their eyes, seeing the rueful acknowledgement in Goniff's eyes, he felt the guilt slide away. Somehow, he knew it wouldn't be coming back. He reached for the bottle in the middle of the table, poured another round into the glasses in front of each man, including his own glass in the doing.

He wondered if he should tell them he was proud of them for standing their ground, waiting til he made his move. Proud of them for standing as a team, not turning on each other, not turning on Goniff. 

He weighed that in his mind, if only for a second or two, then realized it would maybe be an insult to each and every one of them, at least, worded like that. But he could say the same thing in a different, more acceptable way; he'd settle for that. He thought they would too.

Garrison raised his glass to each man in turn, looking them in the eye with a slight smile of acknowledgement. 

"To you, each of you."

That got a faint chuckle from around the table, with faint smiles replacing those frowns.

"No, Craig. To US, all of us, the team," Actor proclaimed, and that got a hearty reply.

"Damn straight!"

And from Chief, a solemn nod of acknowledgement. "Family, real family, don't turn on each other; leastwise, WE don't." 

He snorted with real amusement then, giving a faint smile as sly as any Goniff or Meghada could have given. "WE don't! Now, those Outlanders, they're something different!"

Goniff finished the discussion with a quick nod of his head and a sharp grin, "and aint THAT the ruddy truth! Ruddy damned Outlanders!"

And if Sergeant Major Rawlins wondered at the sudden ringing of laughter from the Common Room, he figured he'd find out what it was about later. Or, considering, maybe not.


End file.
